One of my favorite recordings from Cherish the Ladies includes this version of Carrigdhoun.
Carrigdhoun” was originally called “The Lament of the Irish Maiden” and was written by Denny Lane from Cork. It is a political song telling of the flight from Ireland of Sarsfield’s “Wild Geese” in 1691. The tune for Carrigdhoun inspired the Percy French song, “The Mountains of Mourne.”
The heath was green on Carrigdhoun.
Bright shone the sun o’er Ard-na-Lee
The dark green trees bent trembling down
To kiss the slumbering Own na Buidhe.
That happy day — ’twas but last May —
‘Tis like a dream to me,
When Donal swore, aye o’er and o’er,
We’d part no more a stór mo chroidhe.
On Carrigdhoun the heath is brown.
The clouds are dark o’er Ard-na-Lee,
And many a stream comes rushing down
To swell the angry Owen na Buidhe.
The moaning blast is sweeping past
Through many a leafless tree,
And I’m alone, for he is gone,
My hawk has flown, ochone mo chroidhe.
Soft April showers and bright May flowers
Will bring the summer back again,
But will they bring me back the hours
I spent with my brave Donal then?
There’s but a chance. he’s gone to France
To wear the Fleur-de-Lis.
But I’ll follow you, mo Dhomhnall dú,
For still I’m true to you mo chroidhe.
One of my favorite recordings from Cherish the Ladies. Mary Black sings this ode to Éireann. Happy St. Patrick’s Day!
My Own Native Land
There’s a dear little isle in the Western Ocean
An island of purity, holy and grand
Whose name fills its daughters and sons with emotion
When heard on the shores of a far distant land.
It’s Ireland, my country, the birthplace of heroes
The home of the patriot, warrior and sage
Of bards and of chieftains whose names live in story
May they live forever on history’s page.
Another emigrant song – Erin grá mo chroí, sung here by Colm O’Donnell. You may be familiar with the version made popular by Cherish the Ladies.
Erin Grá Mo Chroí
At the setting of the sun, when my long day’s work was done
I rambled down the seashore for a walk
And I being all alone I sat down upon a stone
For to gaze upon the scenes of New York
Oh Erin grá mo chroí, you’re the dear old land to me
You’re the fairest that my eyes have ever seen
And if ever I go home, it’s from you I never will roam
You’re my own native land so far away
It broke my mother’s heart, the day that I did part
Will I never see my dear ones anymore?
Not until my bones are laid in the cold and silent grave
In my own native land so far away
On a cold, cold winter’s night, with the turf fire burning bright
And the snowflakes falling on a winter’s day,
When St. Patrick’s Day comes and the shamrocks will be worn
In the dear little isle so far away